


Null

by ShimeiKotoba



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Eventual Dark Will Graham, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, eventual murder husbands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-01-04 18:47:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12174555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShimeiKotoba/pseuds/ShimeiKotoba
Summary: Will has put his life into his work, predicting and understanding criminals to lead to their capture. When he took on the case of the Chesapeake Ripper, he thought that for once, life was finally giving him direction: he could fulfill his predestined duty of catching the infamous serial killer.He didn't expect to find blood slathered across his palms, and multiple murders strung around his neck, with the faceless populace calling for his enrollment into the BSHCI.And worst of all, he never expected to meet the Chesapeake Ripper behind one glass case from another.





	1. Eins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An AU in which Will Graham has not met Hannibal Lecter (or the Chesapeake Ripper) until he has been admitted to the BSHIC, for homicides he committed whilst under the sway of a previously unknown case of encephalitis. 
> 
> Hannibal is the unwelcome new addition to the facility, in the cell opposite of Will's.

Eins

A ravenstag.

He is so close to it that it's moist nose is nudging his face, and the pitch-dark feathers rub against his raw skin. It isn’t unpleasant though, and he is almost tempted to stay in this state of relaxation.

_Almost._

He looks at the stag, its proud statures of blade-like antlers looming over his small body.

Then everything boils into night and soiled blood and he has to resist the urge to scream as something else, something unknown stares back into his eyes instead.

***

The heavy, clanking stomps of guards can be heard outside, reminding Will of where he is. He is still very much in a cold sweat, the cell a sweltering abysmal blanket, the frostily uncomfortable liquid seeping into his time-worne dulled blue-grey clothes, but he has not screamed, or at least believes so. Otherwise there would be some very insistent yelling of many variations of phrases insisting that he shut up. 

Will allows his eyes to sweep his cell, drenching himself back into the familiarity that had become his new reality half a year ago. The toilet—greased with molten grime and tainted colors—is shielded with a small curtain to offer decency. The chipped, ashen and bleak wood desk is situated on the wall farthest from him, housing equipment for making harmless fishing hooks. The materials had almost been a plead from Chilton, like the psychiatrist had been begging Will to give him something other than cruel words and blank stares. 

After all, he is presently the most prized possession held within Chilton’s clutch. It is really Chilton’s own accountability that caused Will to refuse to placate the man with information that he could write a study on. It is almost annoying that this is so pursued after and desired by those in the psychiatric circle—the hunger to know about the newest and deadly serial killer who hid under the cover as a FBI special agent. 

He grew tired of correcting them, that he wasn’t technically a true FBI agent. 

Still, he appreciates the gifted opportunity to be able to be mindless in fastening the hooks.

Being trapped within one’s mind is something he is all too acquainted with. 

The same glass panel that separates him from the outside world still stands valiantly. The identical smears left by his fingers on the panel refuses to be scrubbed off, an embarrassing fact for the empath as it only serves to remind him of the times in which all he was capable of was clutching the glass in hope that it would break. 

Of course, it didn’t.

He shouldn’t have hoped in the first place.

Currently, he is very much unwilling to raise his weighed down body from the flimsy cot that is provided for him, lest he appear like a snooping, unintelligible patient. Those are the worst. He still manages to keep his ears listening attentively though, when the shouting starts. Shouting can only mean one thing.

It has been a while since the last one.

The otherwise unintelligible words start to sound richer, bellowing and booming, as if the guards have taken it into their own hands to punish their new captive. There are bouts of gasps for breath mixed with disgruntled voices as well, although he swears that whoever has been making it is not the newcomer. Eventually, though agonizingly slow, they seem to have managed to dump the new patient into the cell across from his own, and Will inwardly sighs, whether from regret or relief, he can’t say. It may be good to see someone whose whole face he hasn’t had to memorize for the last couple of months.

“Stay there, and behave,” one of the guards warns, and Will can almost laugh at the way it sounds like a command from an owner to a dog. But he doesn’t, because that would be rude, and he has no current reason to antagonize the ones who can take away even more of his meager belongings if they so please. Though declared legally insane, he isn’t dumb, as many seem entitled to believe. Their trots fade, the sound of impatient, albeit curious rustling reaching his ears as the patient attempts to conform himself to the small thing that they call a room.

“Are you the new one?” a voice resonates from the adjacent cell. Abel Gideon. The former surgeon had found himself in a cell after murdering his wife and her family. Although once labeled as the Chesapeake Ripper, the accusation has since been removed, after evidence against the real one has supposedly surfaced. As much as Will detests the other inmates, he had been surprised as he found that the company of the other criminal wasn’t as unwelcomed as he had alleged, often finding it in himself to have laidback conversations with the man. 

“No shit,” Will whispers, mainly to himself. The pull of sleep will not offer its hand to him now, imbedding him in his dreams. Not after what he saw, that only seemed to reach into his chest and tear his viscera from their places. Not that it was anything particularly novel. The arterial spray of thick, ruddy blood is a familiar sight, his dreams forever tarnished by the perpetual tingle of gore on his hands.

He just has to simply readjust to it. He can adapt. That is an advantage of being an empath. Possibly one of the few, Will has found.

There is nothing to be said after that, and the new one seems content on not adding anything to the conversation. Or perhaps, he is still simply exhausted from his new venture. Will still refuses to look into the other cell.

Gideon’s abrupt laugh snaps him out of his daze.

“Oh, Mr. Chesapeake Ripper, so good of you to join us,” Gideon muses aloud. That pricks Will’s ears, pressuring him to sneak a quick peak at their new serial killer neighbor... who is apparently a cannibalistic mass murderer. Why did Baltimore get all the psychos? Will prevents the urge to sigh. It isn’t as if he is any better than the other “patients.”

Still, it stings a bit that someone else was able to catch the man. Will so desperately wanted to be the one to put him behind bars. 

The ostensible Ripper is standing with his back faced towards Will, appearing as if he is inspecting his new residence, no doubt with aversion. Lofty, and built with resilience, the man stands proud even when adorned in the regulatory outfit, not a single out of place wrinkle to be found, hands clasped together firmly behind him. As if detecting the stares that riddle him, he pivots his feet, the swift action resulting in his gaze clashing with Will’s.

Will, a man too anxious to make the slightest eye contact with another human, cannot look away even if he desires so. 

Red, vibrant eyes bore into his own cobalt ones. Although painted in color, they are lacking in the type of vitality that is usually present and lucid in the everyday eyes of common folk. No, they cannot be described exactly as the dead eyes of a fish, but of a lion. _The man is tired_ , Will thinks. _The hunter has brought down the greatest of enemies and the quickest of prey; has the steepest of wealth and the richest library of knowledge stored in his remembrances. But he’s tired. So tired._

But… _something feels wrong._

Those eyes betray so many things. Will lets out a strained exhale, tearing his vision from the psychopath’s own. 

Snapping the connection.

_So tired that he allowed his capture._

No, not tired! He would never had permitted the FBI to apprehend him, if the years spent evading them were not in vain. He never would had tolerated giving Jack Crawford that satisfaction. 

_Bored from manipulating others, bending them… snapping them._

That couldn’t be right! From what Will had garnered about the Chesapeake Ripper, the serial killer didn’t seem as if he’d become bored so easily, when he had plenty of toys to mold. 

_Jaded from life._

No no no! This is all wrong! These are not the eyes of a jaded man! He has a mission, to rid of those that he felt were akin to deprived waste!

“Graham?”

Will blinks to steady himself, Gideon tapping on the wall adjoining their cells in order to capture his attention.

“You spaced out and started muttering again,” Gideon explains, almost sounding bored, when a sharp, ragged breath is the only response that Will can bear to give. Will digs his fingernails into the soft, malleable flesh of his palm, engraving little marks that he knows will stay strong, although temporary. It keeps his mind from straying too far from its gravel path. 

“It’s nothing, Gideon.” 

The cannibal cocks his head slightly to the side, examining Will. It feels like an act of an invasion, causing him to subconsciously bristle and glower as he is stripped bare in the regard of the other killer. After a time that feels all too long, the man coolly redirects his gaze elsewhere, and Will lets out a breath that he didn’t realize he was withholding. 

He can only tell that a shit storm is beginning to brew.

As if knowing, Gideon chuckles. It sounds almost sardonic, deficient of humor.

“Welcome to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this is my first fic that's being posted. Hopefully the characters are not too o.o.c., and I know I have lots of room to improve in writing them accurately. This is not beta'd, so I take full responsibility for the mess of a writing this is, and whatever mistakes it contains. Thank you if you've read this far-- just the fact that you're giving this work a try means so much to me! :3 Cheers!


	2. Zwei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will talks to the Chesapeake Ripper for the first time. 
> 
> He doesn't know what to think of the man who operates behind a mask.

Zwei

It all started in the form of an ignorant, so-called psychiatrist by the name of Chilton. No, perhaps it hadn’t begun with the arrogant man, however, it had certainly seemed so. 

The only attribute that Will can conceivably believe to be admirable about the psychiatrist is the fact that the man is persistent.

_Irritatingly so._

Chilton continues to drag the patients out (or at least the ones that are deemed significant enough, including Gideon, Will, and the newcomer) one by one, “treating” them so graciously with inescapable ~~psychoanalysis~~ therapy sessions every so often. It is a special kind of torment, or at least Will believes, one that very few could replicate, as Chilton seems to ramble on, his mouth incessantly spewing out words absent of thoughtful meaning. 

As per usual with the sessions, Will trains his eyes on Chilton. The psychiatrist doesn’t need to know that Will has fled to into the recesses of his mind, finding the little niche that holds the feeling of his legs submerged within cold, fleeting water, the rough bristles of the fishing pole brushing against his calloused fingers as the line is thrown into the water, the small barbed hook at the end glistening almost mischievously in the glint of the pulsating sunlight. 

He is being sparing today. In the past, Will had read the man’s mindset, pried open the murky hollows of his mentality and spit them back as brutishly as he could, a sneer permanent on his countenance as Chilton had bolted and left the orderlies to return Will back to his cell. 

As much as Will had tried to be the civil and well-mannered man his father shaped him into, he couldn’t hide from the fact that the mere sight of dread and horror flickering in Chilton’s eyes had made him almost giddy with unadulterated glee that day.

“Mr. Graham?”

Will lets out a solemn sigh and looks expectantly at Chilton, who has a face twisted with concern (for his own safety of course, not Will’s) and possibly anxiety (as if Will was going to feed him his fears again). The cramped cage, the one that always seems to be closing in on him is back, as the coursing river dissipates back into nothingness. 

“You were smiling,” Chilton states bluntly, face trying to remain impassive but failing, a strained quality to his expression. 

Possibly the only times he ever caught Will smiling was when he scarred Chilton mentally. 

Will thinks about playing at indifferent—imagines returning back to the bare cell, entrapped within the own musings of his judgements. 

Instead, he laughs.

He laughs; bitterly, boisterously, both void of feeling and congested fully of them simultaneously. 

As expected, Chilton visibly recoils. His mouth opens slightly, more placations likely to be spewed, before he seems to think better of it, pursing his lips in a jagged line as if bracing for the onslaught of invectives he knows will come. 

Will does not disappoint.

“You hold yourself in such high regard—” he hisses, a low tone emitting from his throat. “You pride yourself on the fact that you have me in your shitty prison. But you’re not obtaining the glory that you had anticipated to just drop into your greedy little hands.”

The chair scrapes, obnoxiously shrill, as Chilton begins to stand in disbelief. 

This does naught to deter the empath.

“You seem to think that everything will be easy for you. You are a shrink—one of the highest paying careers in medicine that takes years to become. You believe yourself to be strong, but you are not. You have all the necessary materials in your grasp to make your career, right? But no.”

A smug smirk smears onto Will’s face, aware of his guaranteed victory, his fingers lacing around the bars as a snake would bind around its victims, triumphant.

“All anyone will ever remember you as is the one who had the opportunity to study Will Graham and failed to do just that. The only one who is wrapped around another’s finger is you, Chilton, who still pathetically attempts at garnering the respect of others while devaluing your own worth. Not that you have much worth at all.”

Will receives nothing but a contempt filled silence as a retort for his efforts, until an anxious cough reverberates aloofly throughout the open room. 

Chilton almost jumps, eyes darting nervously to the source of the noise. The sight of two orderlies holding onto a handcuffed and amused Chesapeake Ripper convinces Will to revert back to his resentful calm. 

He has no yearning to look back into those red, crackling eyes, the corners crinkled with obvious entertainment. 

Will attempts to convey this to the serial killer through an aura of murderous intent alone, but the Ripper only seems more pleased. 

In fact, if the man’s hands were free, Will would have not been surprised were he to start applauding. 

Chilton is still fuming, although now with scarlet flushing across his expression from mortification, having been insulted in front of others.

“Sorry, Mr. Chilton, sir,” one of the orderlies apologizes. He doesn’t really sound remorseful. “We thought that your session with Mr. Graham was over, so we brought you the next patient.”

Chilton huffs angrily. 

Will is complacent when the orderlies lead him back to his cell. Once returned, a tired groan is released. While absentmindedly massaging the enflamed handcuff indentations on the insides of his wrists, he sags back down onto the fragile cot with enough vigor to jostle the rickety fabric.

With alacrity, he shuts his eyes in hope for narrowly missed sleep. 

***

The abrupt ringing of a cell harshly being torn agape and then slammed shut wrenches Will out of his shallow slumber, eyelids crustily opening with scorn. The feeling of his sweat drenched clothes floods his senses, and he automatedly starts to pull down his top to release some of the imprisoned stifling temperature.

It is only then that the back of his neck prickles, and Will immediately pulls his top back up, belated heat rising to his face. He does not have to turn around to know that an acquainted set of scarlet eyes will be staring back into his own. 

Neither one of them speak, Will still facing the opposite direction. If anything, he is perfectly content to remain like this; an agreeable yet disparaging quiet falling over the area like languidly blanketing snowflakes. 

“Good evening, Mr. Graham.”

Will offers nothing in reply. 

“…Or would you permit me to call you Will?”

“What do you want?”

The other serial killer pauses, as if contemplating. 

“I seek nothing from you, Will. I am merely curious. I was not previously aware of this hospital harboring an empath such as yourself. Your name or crimes were never known to me.”

“…What?” 

Before he realizes it, Will is stepping guardedly to the glass, judging the man intently, who only allows a blank expression to be sewn on his face. 

“I don’t get what you’re saying,” Will presses, aware of his own state of tranquility, agitation a surprisingly nonexistent emotion. He understands that his condition of exemplified empathy is common knowledge to those who know his name, but the fact that such a high-profile murderer on the FBI’s most wanted list doesn’t know who Will Graham is…

… is a bit disappointing. 

“I did not intend that as an insult,” the man rectifies, a slight twitch to the end of his mouth signifying his amusement. “Unsurprisingly, information was scarce for me amidst capture and incarceration in this facility. The names of other residing patients were unavailable to me as a necessary precaution.”

“… for the safety of those patients,” Will finishes, the originally unspoken words now present in the air. 

“Indeed,” he confirms, a thinly pressed smile invading his features, as if Will had spat something particularly uncouth.

Will wonders how much emotion the man is showing is real.

“And who exactly are you?” Will asks, keeping his tone light in order to combat the discourtesy wallowing within the words.

“My apologies; I had overlooked introducing myself in my haste to converse with you. However, I would like to hear you introduce yourself first.”

Will raises an eyebrow, deciding to be frank. “Why?” He is beginning to hate this one word, just from the strain of repetition. 

“I assure you, I will reciprocate after you. I merely desire to sate my own curiosity first. There is not much else to do in these cells after all, is there?”

Biting back an indecent snort, Will submits with a shrug. “My name is Will Graham.”  
Another silence befalls the room.

“… your turn?” Will prompts, but for some odd reason, it sounds more akin to a plead, to his own mortification.

“That is not an introduction, Will. Give me something more substantial.”

Shoulders beginning to sag, Will narrows his eyes. “And if I don’t want to?”

“Then we shall sit in our cells, bored, until the next time should you want to converse with me again.”

Will sucks in a breath, tired. He hates the other patients—abhors them even (with the lonely exception of Gideon), but he fears lack of stimulating conversation will reduce him to a vegetable-like state in the cell one day. 

Besides, he never thought he would be able to meet the Chesapeake Ripper, after he was imprisoned in this hospital. 

“My name is Will Graham,” he repeats, for the lack of important information coming to mind. A pause. 

“You know I have an empathy disorder. It lets me take on the mindset of anyone, so I can become them.” A bitter smile wills itself onto his face. “Obviously, some people found this to be useful, because I can imagine myself as a murderer and catch them.”

“I used to teach to FBI trainees in Quantico, before being recruited by Jack Crawford—” the man’s eye slightly twitches, and seems internally irate at the mention of Jack’s name, inadvertently causing Will to smirk. “—to solve cases and predict the next moves of killers. But I had encephalitis and unknowingly went on several murder sprees. I wasn’t even a true FBI agent either, so Crawford’s decisions were questioned. Somehow, he still has his position, while I’m rotting here for crimes I committed while ill.”

He gives a self-deprecating grin.

“I was actually recruited to capture the Chesapeake Ripper. The fucking irony is that the way I meet you is by from one cell to another.”

The other man seems thoughtful for a moment, as if thinking upon something. Will can only hope that he does not inquire for more information than he is willing to give at the moment.

“You had my word, Will. Quid pro quo. I shall endeavor to introduce myself now as you have just done.”

The man gifts him a slight, yet graceful bow in formality. “My name is Doctor Hannibal Lecter, although my license to practice psychiatry has certainly been revoked by this time.”

Will blanches. Another psychiatrist is just what he needs.

“Others have also labeled me as the Chesapeake Ripper for the kills I have commenced.” A hint of a smile appears on his face. “I doubt I have to explain to you the reasons for them.”

A huff escapes Will, directed at this man who is so full of himself. 

“But I would like to hear the reasons for yours.”

The air in the room crackles, and Will feels his hackles rise. The collar of his shirt is choking him. Or, perhaps it is the imaginary hands that are casing their fingers around his neck.

“There are no reasons,” Will asserts, eye flicking away from the man’s own. “I told you that I can’t remember them.” 

“Because you do not desire to recall them to memory. As such, they are still very much reachable. Although, you must be willing to do so.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want to.” The cold sweat that has been beading atop his forehead slithers down in lethargic trickles, scarcely missing his eyes. He unfolds his sticky palms and wipes them indifferently onto the coarse fabric of his pants. 

A sliver of the doctor’s teeth is being bared; the points predatory and razor-sharp. It serves as a quiet reminder of the facts that Will tends to forget, such as the cannibalistic part of the serial killer.

For a moment, Will breathes in sharply, the image of the man’s carnal canines blemished in crimson, clumps of pinked flesh wedged between his teeth, an acrimonious assault on his mind. He can see the gore slathered across the murderer’s apathetic face, slim eyes flushed with mirth from the action of slaughtering utter swine. 

Will exhales, harsh and shaky, unable to meet the other’s blatant stare. 

He detests how much he appreciates the impression that has imprinted itself behind his sight. The unremitting flashes of red do not cease, and he presses his nails into his skin in an attempt to expel the aftershocks of the high.

The Ripper’s eyes flash.

“Are you sure about that, Will?” 

“I don’t give a shit.”

Those red eyes glint in considerate warning. Will chooses to ignore them, glowering back into those maroon flecks in challenge. 

After all, he was born with a predisposition to disregard caution. Although, it has come back to bite him back in the ass in the past. 

“I’m exhausted,” Will starts, the truth a refreshing gulp. “I want to sleep now.”

It’s a desperate deflection, and the other man knows it. In spite of it, the doctor inclines his head slightly in evident affirmation. 

“I have no control over your actions Will.” 

His gaze hardens.

“Only you are your own god.”

It’s easy to pretend that the water and fishes are the only company he has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo~ Finally got the second chapter posted. I'm in university right now, so updates might get a little slower as I'm being swamped with homework and assignments left and right. Still, I'm determined to complete this in good time. Have a good day! :^)


	3. Drei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a warning, this chapter features very brief suicidal thoughts, around a few sentences in length. If that's a sensitive topic and you want to skip it, skip over "Will was bored" down to "'What the fuck are you doing?' he hissed."

Drei

There are not a whole surplus of interactions between them the next few weeks, the two often physically in the same room but not mentally, both of them choosing to instead frequent the halls of their memory palaces. For long periods of time, the other man sits disconcertingly still on the edge of his cot, eyelids shut to lock out any extra external stimuli. To the eyes of any other, he would appear practically deceased—not that it would be an alarming prospect to many, other than perhaps Chilton, who would have a fit if his new captive perished. 

Will can see though. 

He can see whenever the Ripper reenters a favored memory, the slightest tic that quavers his lips a small hint to the satisfaction that he is reliving. 

Similarly, he can see when the man discovers a repulsive vision, a quick tremble of his fingers suggesting to Will that he may be throttling someone, or is being twisted with the craving to ensure it transpires. 

Then, the man habitually repeats this never-ending cycle of the method of loci, until he seems wearied of it, elegantly swinging his legs to rest upon the cot and lying back. Will can never tell exactly when the man falls asleep as opposed to simply resting. 

Will is about a hundred percent certain that the other man is conscious of his noiseless observing. If he is, he never elects to acknowledge it. 

They remain amicable to one another, giving greetings—in Will’s case, a simple nod of recognition—but never truly conversing again. The other man’s obstinacy threatens to overcome Will’s own.

It took a few days before Will had broken the mutual silence that was presiding over both of them. Will remembers the day as lucidly as if it had only occurred an hour or two ago. 

***

 _Will was bored. That was a normal thing._

Crinkle.

 _With an absence of activities available to him (besides tying the fishing hooks, until his hands cramped with the repetitive motions and he ended up smashing them against the walls or under his bare feet) or meaningful conversation (Chilton obviously doesn’t count), he was beginning to wonder if he should drown himself in the toilet._

Crinkle.

 _It would not be a pretty way to go, but his eyes could only see murder, which was something unavailable to him at the moment._

Crinkle.

 _Or, he could stuff one of his beloved fishing hooks down his throat until he choked. A stringent shudder coursed throughout his body. He hated the feeling of being unable to breathe properly._

Crinkle.

_He could always bash his head against the concrete in hopes of suffering brain trauma, sending rippling cracks throughout his head to quell the skull fire._

__

__

_He was quite content, albeit antsy from the flittering thoughts, but was still going to continue to contemplate the ways he could kill himself with the meager substances in the cell._

__

__

_…_

_If only that_ goddamn _crinkling noise would stop._

 _“What the_ fuck _are you doing?” He hissed, inclined to punch something._

_Some of the other patients shushed him or started their daily wailing again._

__

__

_“Reading, Will. It is ‘the action or skill of reading written or printed matter silently or aloud’ (thanks, Google). I would have assumed that an educated man such as yourself would already retain knowledge of this.”_

_When did the serial killer become such a smart ass?_

“Fuck you. _Wait, where did you get a book?!”_

_“Language. You know how I conceive the rude.” Will’s shoulders stiffen. “I received the book from the stack stored in this building. Plausibly, if you were politer to Mr. Chilton, he would also permit you to obtain one as well."_

__

__

_Will shrunk. He had unintentionally caused this predicament himself._

__

__

_Before he knew it, his big mouth had opened and he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind._

_“…then, could you read some of it to me?”_

_“…pardon?”_

_Will felt disappointment, and humiliation (mainly humiliation) well up and sink inside his gut, a hefty weight to his already empty stomach. He wanted to combust now. Dying didn’t sound so bad anymore. Wait, maybe he could start a fire. How does one start a fire with his limited ingredients?_

_“Ignore me. Please forget it.”_

_…_

_“I must warn you that this piece of literature is in French. Would you prefer for me to read it to you in its original language or shall I translate it for you?”_

_Will barked out a shaky laugh, his face still heated. If the man was content to humor him, Will would not give a shit, even from the blunt mortification still stinging sharp. “I honestly don’t care. Either way is fine. I just don’t want to kill myself from this everyday monotony.”_

_“You should refrain from jesting regarding suicide, Will,” the Ripper chided. His eyes bore his frown. “I believe that the French conveys the emotions and ambience of the work more thoroughly than English.” Nevertheless, he cleared his throat (overdramatically, Will might add), and began to speak in a smooth wave of French that Will struggled to translate properly in his head._

_“Le Petit Prince. Lorsque j’avais six ans j’ai vu…”_

***

This exchange has been repeated multiple times, consisting of the cannibal reading to Will about literature in foreign languages, and unable to help holding himself albeit a bit proudly, as Will slowly, but surely began to learn the languages, picking up stray words like he would dogs.

Will almost thinks that they can get along after all. 

While the days are relatively peaceful (ignoring irritating outbursts from fellow patients), the nights are not, at least for the empath. 

***

 **Drowning.** His body is rooted within a girth of molten black water, his limbs impractical as the liquid crashes over his face. The weight of the water assaults him as if it wants to smother him. He gags pitiably, fluid saturating his lungs, slimy fingers latching onto his ankles, as he is dragged under. He screams. The gurgling noises are greedily swallowed up by the dense vacuum of the water. 

Falling within the depths of dimness, Will wants to close his eyes. Instead, they are twisted open, and he sees frames in human-like shapes encircle him. He screams more and some scream back, while others only resort to glowers and leers, the faces of his numerous victims spewing incomprehensible phrases. 

**He is drowning.**

Light falls in radiant white to his side. He watches as his past self frantically pulls at the trigger of the pistol, drilling bullet after bullet into Garret Jacob Hobbs, his daughter’s neck weeping red on the furnished kitchen floor. He can feel the desperation in him, from the way he wrenches the trigger back over and over and over again instead of letting the abrupt recoil of the gun surprise him; instead of softly drawing the trigger back just as taking away a life should go. 

The image disperses and a further one materializes.

He feels rather than sees himself strangling Tobias Budge with the gut strings he loved so much, two fellow FBI agents lying dead, their washed eyes urging him to dig the tips of his nails further and further into the delicate canvas of Tobias’ neck. 

The hollowed gasps secreting from the musician’s mouth are not unlike a delicate melody to his ears.

He sees himself duck when Randall Tier bursts through his window, shards of sleek glass spraying into powder around them. The sickening crunch of the animalistic man’s neck awakens a chasm in Will, a new side of him developing. 

More and more of his victims’ deaths emerge and dispel. 

Too many to count. 

The black water stretches into scarlet. His limbs start waving instantly, and with a last tug of strength, he resurfaces with a cry. 

A snowy white carnation flutters down onto the surface next to him before being drenched in ruby blood. Absent of thought or care, Will snatches it firmly as he is swallowed in red. 

**They are drowning.**

***

He awakes in a sea of lucidity. His breathing is fairly composed, sight gradually adjusting to the shearing light, before he grasps that someone is aiming a flashlight in his direction. Instinctually, he blocks as much as he can from his face, and hisses at the cool air that is like wallowing muck. 

“Mr. Graham?”

Will sighs, relief at it just being one of the orderlies, instead of a cop finding him showered in someone else’s blood. 

“Yes?”

“Are you alright sir? We could give you some sleeping medication if you want.”

“No, I’m fine. Thanks.”

The orderly seems to think upon it for a second, before giving a shrug and dismissing himself, taking with him the light. Once again, the room is consumed in utter darkness. 

He slumps back onto the bed, bleary and shaken. Wrapping the meager blanket over his quivering form does naught to reduce the unpleasant aftershocks of the nightmare, and a shortness of breath leaves him subject to the sounds of his own heart palpitating unsteadily. 

To his horror, everything starts feeling numb, and his eyes start to dart frantically around the cell.

“Breathe.”

“…W-what?” Speaking is now a sore action, his throat feeling raw from the air passing through it. It takes him a shameful amount of time to comprehend that a lulling, velvety voice is directing him. 

“Relax, Will. You are not in any immediate danger here. Breathe in as deeply as you can through your nose. Now, breathe out deeply through your mouth. Good, repeat that for as long as you require.”

…

…

The other patients are surprisingly quiet throughout this exchange. 

“Oh God,” Will gasps. The other patients. How embarrassing. 

As if reading his mind, the man responds,

“Don’t worry, Will. The others are either sleeping at the moment or simply too drugged out to be aware of this.”

Will lets out a weak laugh in response. Good enough. 

…

For what feels like an empty hour to pass, Will is able to accommodate himself back to normal, now sitting up and staring at the fragmented ridges of the other man’s cell. Breathing becomes a natural action again.

“…Thank you,” Will says, although it does not need to be spoken. He cannot see the Ripper but imagines that he is gifting him with his signature shallow smile. 

“You’re very welcome. Would you care to enlighten me with the incidence rate of your nightmares?”

He chews on his bottom lip, uncertain, in spite of the doctor just calming him from an unexpected panic attack. Bristling in insult would have been his first impulse, if he was not so fatigued.

“You fucking know already. Don’t play dumb with me.”

“I know that you are a very intellectual man, Will.” The empath can’t tell if that was said sarcastically or not. With psychopaths, it is occasionally nearly impossible to differentiate. “Granted, it is accurate that I previously possessed an impression of the rate of occurrence. You have been on the receiving end of constant nightmares from when I first arrived in this institution. I can only presume that they are not a novel experience for you.”

It unsettles Will that the other man recalled him having nightmares that first day of his arrival.

“They’ve been happening ever since I can remember. I’ve adjusted to them though.”

The man cannot hide the curiosity in his tone. “I beg to differ. Why would you be having such a ruinous reaction to them lately then?”

Will frowns grimly. The bastard. He knows.

“I don’t know, Doctor Lecter,” he says smoothly, a sanguine charm embedded in his tone, though pissed. “Can’t you tell me?”

The doctor seems pleased with himself. Will wants to scrape that smile off with a meat cleaver. “Perhaps you are having a reaction to my presence, if I were to presume.”

Will tries to look at him as seriously and skeptically as he can manage, though the trickling urge to laugh has his mouth convulsing no doubt unattractively and visibly. He apparently does fail in his half-hearted attempt, because the man looks at him almost exasperatingly, as a mother would a child, if not for the scarce amused glisten in his eyes. 

“How conceited of you, Doctor,” Will remarks. “You must think the entire world revolved around you.”

The man doesn’t respond, and the empath blinks, before snorting. “Never mind. You probably do, don’t you?”

“…”

It takes Will a few seconds before realizing that the Ripper has entered a catatonic state once again. A sigh squeezes out of Will, as he imagines the other man has entered his memory palace once Will had insulted him one too many times for his liking tolerance. He wonders if the serial killer is playing out scenarios of ripping Will’s life away from him. 

Will finds that if that’s the case, he doesn’t really mind. 

He grins to himself. 

His boredom is a thing of the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa it's been a month since the last update, mainly because I wasn't really happy with the chapter and kept revising it as a result. Although it's taking a while to write chapters, I've got the basic plot thought-out and outlined now, so it shouldn't take so long again. Cheers!


	4. Vier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some faces seem familiar.  
> Others are new,  
> Entraped within a cage of mesh.  
> Who shall mold  
> thee, And who shall chew  
> Tempting, o tempting flesh?

Vier

They are on amicable terms now, a tentative and delicate, yet sprouting familiarity that swaths their relationship in a filmy wave of tranquility. It is unspoken the subjects that are treated as taboo: Will’s murders, the doctor’s pretentiousness, their emotional feelings (lest their conversations become reminiscent of psychoanalysis), how the read-aloud books have become daily endeavors, and the shrouded circumstances of both of their pasts. 

They are entranced within one of such daily language learning sessions when they are rudely (quite rudely, as the doctor would say) interrupted. 

Will lays comfortably against the sleek glass wall, eyes resting as he repeats the last lines of the latest novel. The other man is not visible to the empath, but he shudders as if his voice is presently neighboring his ears. 

“думаешь, я всё знаюю. Ты хочешь спать, да?… so ‘Do you think I know everything? You want to sleep, right?’”

“Excellent, Will… you are culturing your acquisition of knowledge quite quicker than most,” the man affirms, and despite Will’s mental protests, he feels a part of him (a part of which he believed had been vanished ever since his blood painted arrest) preen at the generous praise. 

The rapid succession of heels clacking against the solid floor makes Will alert, and he groans softly when he exerts the remnants of his strength to strict his posture, standing straight and facing the other cell. Red eyes reflect back into his. They are as blank as ever, and Will cannot differentiate any lucid emotion present in them.

The moment he sees the stock of gentle, black hair that falls around the shaped, yet soft face of Alana Bloom, his throat constricts. He considers briefly the choice of shrinking back into the corner of the cell, maybe even fitting himself behind the infinitesimal privacy curtain, but he knows that he would just be running away from his problems… again.

Besides, Will knows that Alana is not here for him. 

His calculation proves correct when Alana’s gaze washes over him, hurt, brittle and tangy, flaring within her bright irises, before she wrenches her stare away to redirect it towards the Chesapeake Ripper.

“Hannibal,” she says, and she looks so composed and professional that it could fool anyone, really. Will is _not_ anyone. She is rigid, from the slightly elevated shoulders to her glued together heels. Her eyes persist in straying from the doctor’s own, a fact that startles Will’s inquisitiveness, when he gives the man a look that he hopes will be interpreted as questioning. The man returns it with his signature bland expression. Not helpful. 

“Yes,” the doctor responds. He does not look comfortable, yet neither anxious. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“We need to talk.” She is blunt, and it is then that Will sees the red that peaks from her eyes, despite the brushing of makeup exhausted to mask its existence. “Could we move to the private visiting room?”

“We have the ability to converse perfectly fine here, Miss Bloom.”

The look Alana gives is pleading, and her frustration is seeping clearly through her countenance. 

Despite Will’s own fondness of the good psychiatrist, he can never forget the betrayal she had befallen upon him. 

“Yeah, Alana,” he mocks, staring directly at her, unblinking. “We shouldn’t keep secrets anymore, should we?”

She visibly stiffens, her face contorting into a spasm of reactions, and the dark part of Will revels in it. Hurt, is the expression she seems to settle for. 

“You know there was nothing more I could do for you.” Her breath is a sheer whisper, and Will reasons that he finds a speck of regret in her. Or, perhaps, that is naught but his own selfish wishful thinking. 

“Nothing else to do for me, but to _abandon_ me right before my trial? When you could have prevented my incarceration in this run-down piss-hole in the first place?” 

“Will, you are beginning to raise your voice,” the doctor advises, and it almost sounds as if he is trying to make his tone mellower. “I suggest that you take a breath and not relinquish control to your feelings.”

“You don’t understand,” Will states, a strain fashioning a crevice in his voice. He lets his face drop, as he presses flush against the glass, two sets of eyes looking back into his, but only one of them relevant anymore. “I gave her all my trust at the lowest point in my life. I gave her _everything_. She _betrayed_ me. She gave no explanation, just _left_ without fighting for my case. She was the game changer. _But she fucking left. Left,_ Hannibal. Fucking hell. Alana, you left me to _rot_ in here for the rest of my life, under the _supervision_ of the _dumbest_ fucking shrink in history.”

He cannot tell how much of his little monologue is his own words, or the words of a killer. He’s beginning to think that they’re one in the same. 

Before he knows it, hot pockets prick his eyes and wet tears begin to make their way down his face to coat his stubble. Embarrassing. At least he hasn’t started to hiccup with quivering sobs yet. He can’t even find it in himself to smear the liquid away with his dirty shirt sleeve. 

“Will…” and she almost sounds as broken as he appears right now, but he does not desire to look at her anymore. 

“Will,” the other man soothes, his regard resting on the empath. “It seems that we have both suffered our fates to Miss Bloom.” He stares coolly at the psychiatrist, and allows a small smile, yet garnered with a blossom of predatoriness to grace his features. “Miss Bloom was the one to alert Jack Crawford of my… more artistic activities. It seems that I had permitted her to become closer than I should have allowed.”

In all honestly, Will has reaped a tolerance for surprises. He is not shocked by this one. It’s such a small world that they live in. 

Will laughs, grittily. He reads between the lines, carefully, as an artist lines their work; as a prosecutor picks apart every single slight in tone from trembling witnesses and defendants. “So you slept with the Chesapeake Ripper while I was in here? Damn, Alana. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

She flushes a terrible red. “I didn’t know that at the time, Will. And I turned him in.” 

“That doesn’t rid of the fact.”

“I request a change of subject.” Alana glowers determinedly at the doctor once again. “How could you do that to me? Was I just another toy to you?”

The look the man gives her speaks as if he is shrugging his shoulders, though there’s a bit of a sharpness in his eyes that makes Will’s hackles raise. 

He decides in a split second, the action he takes next. 

Closing his eyes, the pendulum swings. 

He isn’t an opportunity waster, after all. And, not all his visions have to be of murder…

…right?

_He sees the Chesapeake Ripper. No, not the Ripper, but the other masked face—the one that the man pulls over his head every day; the one of which he removes at nightfall. This man, Hannibal, was sitting on the edge of a bed, soft silk pooling around him. Alana Bloom lied against him, resting comfortably beside his bare shoulder, her gaze fixated upon an instrument that was positioned on a stand in front of them. Will would even say that she looked entranced by it, a light grin ever present across her face as she moved her hands, albeit stiffly._

_“It sounds like I’m killing it.” She let out a laugh, somewhat embarrassed at drawing multiple skipping pitches from the device._

_“You are killing it. Don’t kill it.”_

_Fond. The man sounded fond. Perhaps not overly affectionate, but the emotion that woke in his voice is still true._

_“A theremin is an instrument that can create exquisite music without ever needing to be touched, but… it requires the rare gift of perfect pitch to play properly.”_

_A snort openly escapes Will. The man still sounded as if he thought highly enough of himself._

_Will wonders if the beast thought that Alana could resonate with him, as a musician resonates with their instrument—their second self._

_He wonders when the beast had realized the unfeasible._

“If you were just another toy to him, you wouldn’t be here right now Alana,” Will proclaims, gazing thoughtfully towards the woman who he had once loved—or at least thought he loved.

She returns a skeptical look.

“He treasured you. Sculpted you. Hell, he was even tender towards you.” This time, the warning is from the empath. “Don’t take what he gave you—that he didn’t, and doesn’t give to anyone else—for granted, Alana. Don’t throw it away.”

She looks at him, considering. Then, he sees a flash, quick as her wits, of her past self; the pure, caring and unselfish, yet ignorant Alana who did not desire answers, and did not seek them. Who knows if the change was for better or for worse? 

But all that matters is that Will has not seen this Alana in years, since his imprisonment, and he almost wants to fall in love with her all over again, even though it would be the very epitome of the word “impossible.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind, Will,” she responds, her intonation a delicate murmur. He can see in her slight smile the gratitude she owes to him, that she will never need to voice. The doubts that had been gathering like a tornado seem to have dispersed, and Will is stricken with a sense of accomplishment, because even if the good psychiatrist was not a friend to him to the end, he could be for her. 

“Actually…” 

Will looks at her quizzically, as she begins to speak again.

She coughs. “I wasn’t just here to see Hannibal. I wanted to talk to you about reopening your case again.”

He fights back a well-deserved sigh. “You can’t. It’s already a closed case. It’s been, what… months since it was settled and I was institutionalized here?”

Alana purses her lips tenderly. “It’s still possible to convince police to reopen it. I have to try. It wasn’t fair for me to abandon you when I did, and I want to amend that mistake.” Her face is hard-set, and Will sucks in an inhale, his muscles relaxing and flight instincts vanishing out of existence, for he knows that even she will not betray his trust again.

“Will will not be of need of your services, Alana,” a smooth voice inserts into the conversation. The empath almost forgot about the man, poised like a snake ready to strike.

“And who are you to speak for me?” Will inquires throughout clenched teeth. Hannibal subtly bares his teeth in response. “If I can get out of here, then I want to. Even if it’s a small chance.” 

The other man does not respond to this. However interesting this was at first, Will is beginning to get tired of this pattern. Ask a question. Silence. Want solitude? Badgering questions and unwelcomed psychoanalysis is sure to come.

One could only take so much of it.

Will turns back to Alana, endeavoring to quirk his mouth into an indebted smile. “If you’re sure of it, then I’d like that. It probably won’t be easy though,” he warns. “The judge and jury were really hard-set on getting me this verdict.”

She beams. “Don’t worry about that. Just take care of yourself. I’ll do what I should have done years ago.” 

A somewhat awkward, yet not entirely uncomfortable silence permeates the air, and Will attempts to vanquish it with a slight cough. “Should you get going now Alana? I think Chilton doesn’t like us priso—patients entertaining visitors for too long.”

“Yes, I’ll leave now,” She confirms. Her vigor seems renewed, and Will feels a part of him relax more. “Thank you. I’ll visit you again soon, I promise.” Will closes his eyes and listens to the successions of her heels clacking away, farther and farther and farther.

Until they stop.

…

Silence resumes.

“Why do you have such a determination to leave, Will?” Hannibal inquires, with a smooth, steady tone. 

Will doesn’t have the energy to look at him. He clangs his head against the glass with an unsatisfying thud, knowing it’ll leave a trivial mark, a stain if you will, that will never be washed off. It will remain perpetual.

Unlike him. 

“Why do you care? I thought that we weren’t going to do this psychoanalyzing bullshit,” Will breathes out, indifference flooding his tenor. 

“I merely wish to know. Not to judge, nor to analyze,” is the succinct response.

Will does not waste time. “I feel like I’m dying.”

Will can imagine the perplexity written across the psychiatrist’s face. 

So he carries on. “Most people just live in the now, right? But in a crude way, I’m immortal. We’re immortal. Not in the popular, fantasized sense. But we’re immortalized because we’ll forever be known for our past actions. We’ll be known for what people choose to know us for.”

“I’ll be immortalized as the prodigal, FBI special agent who was mentally ill and went psycho and murdered a shit load of people. You’ll be immortalized as the perfectionist, highly skilled and dangerous serial killer who also cannibalized his victims and fed them to unsuspecting guests.”

He gives a whittled smile. “No one will remember me as the man who saved potential victims and caught numerous dangerous murderers. They won’t remember me as the introverted, boat mechanic who rescued dogs and loved the beauty of fishing and water.”

“They won’t remember you as a former surgeon who pieced people back together. They won’t remember you as the psychiatrist who helped… some of his patients get their lives back together. They won’t remember that you killed those who sullied others and made art out of them and turned garbage into paintings and knew that they deser—"

Violent fits of coughing sputters out of his throat, and Will collapses against the glass with a shrieking skid. His throat feels like it’s squeezing the remaining life he possesses out of him and an overwhelmingly intense hotness slips into his lungs. It feels like fire, and he doesn’t know what scares him more: that he’s having another fucking panic attack or that he was about to say that those people _deserved_ to be butchered by this maniac.

Still, he doesn’t look at Hannibal. Why did he allow himself to get so close to the man, whose ideals seemed to be slowly seeping into his own mind? He steadies his breathing, and with several gasping breaths, manages to regain a semblance of control. 

Hannibal has not yet said a word through this whole thing. Maybe he went into his Mind Palace again. It’s rude to not listen while someone is telling you their fucking feelings.

Hell if he cares anymore.

“Excuse me Mr. Graham.”

An orderly slips into the room and places a tray in the slot of Will’s cell with a tiring, chilling clang. An assortment of colorful, dry, rough pills and a meager glass of lukewarm water greet him, reflecting back at him. “Here’s your nightly medication.” Will refuses to look into the eyes of the orderly (better to avoid the gazes of others while he can), but his vision captures a hint of a smirk etched upon the orderly’s face. He sets his face in a glare and elects to remain oblivious to the renewed flight instinct calling to begin running. For now, he will feign ignorance to the feeling.

Picking up the tray with steady hands, Will despondently swallows a few of the pills at once, before something stabs at his mind. 

One.

Just one. 

A small, bland of color pill that he doesn’t quite recognize before, is thrown into the mix. He doesn’t spare the time to study it. Quickly, one by one, all the pills go into his mouth, and he opens it with a mocking tang, the orderly checking to see all of them have left no trace. The orderly nods, before heading to the next cells, and distributing to the other patients their required medications.

The little pill is safely nestled behind his teeth. The smooth outer film of the pill is wavering, about to break. 

With hurry, he spits it out into the toilet, and takes great pleasure in seeing it dissolve in the murky liquid, gone. 

Why do people always seem to assume that he’s stupid?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yahoo, I finally got this done! I've got finals coming up, so the next chapters are going to take a while to get posted while I attempt to save my grades, heh heh. 
> 
> Also, sorry if the characters seem o.o.c.. The way I write them are my interpretations of the characters, so they may not align exactly with how they are actually portrayed by the show or by other fanfic authors. 
> 
> And as this is an AU, I'd imagine the characters to be slightly different from their different experiences. In this one, Alana was supposed to argue for the defense of Will but lost face before the trial, thinking too that it'd be better for him to be contained in the BSHCI for life. As a result, Will is more crude, easily agitated, and defensive, having been betrayed by literally everyone. However... people still crave human contact...
> 
> Cheers! :>


End file.
